


Looking for the summer

by ukenceto



Series: Love beyond the bones [1]
Category: Gears of War (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Sharing a Bed, of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 05:36:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12857880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ukenceto/pseuds/ukenceto
Summary: Set post-Jacinto's fall (GOW2) but before the events of GOW3.Baird struggles to get used to living aboard the Sovereign; confronts Marcus after one of his nightmares.





	Looking for the summer

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all... hope you enjoy this cuz I got feels for these guys all over again. 
> 
> Just a scene that played so vividly in my mind I had to write it down. 
> 
> No correlation to GOW4(I haven't played it and have watched very little cut-scenes) or the books (only brief mention of the Slab, and some themes from Aspho Fields). 
> 
> Title and mood inspired by this song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A8a6kHQN9BA

His reflection glances back at him from the chipped mirror, the surface foggy and darkened by spots of patina, blooming like black lichen. Not even silver could stand to attest the passage of time, it seemed.

 

His eyes were bloodshot, surrounded by blue-green skin the color of a day old bruise.

 

He splashed some more cold water over his face, sighing as the droplets ran down his neck, into the already sweat-soaked tank top. The night was hotter than he remembers ever knowing, even back in his younger days in Halvo Bay. Not a single gush of fresh air goes through the narrow corridors, despite the plenty of open hatch windows along the way. Worse so, the metal appears to radiate heat in waves, still holding onto the sunlight from the day.

 

He almost feels sick again, the slow up and down motion of the ship as it sways along the still waters grating on his senses.

 

A muffled shout interrupts his thoughts, though he'd come to think of it as it's nothing unusual in the past few months; sharing close living quarters with a ton of gears after the fall of Jacinto is much like being in the barracks again, though this time maybe worse. A lot more shouting at night that is – a lot more years had passed since he'd first enlisted in the COG, and everyone had seen well beyond their fair share of war horrors since then.

 

Meaning there were plenty of nightmares to haunt them, though for once that was a thing of which his brain had miraculously spared his mind.

 

Passing by a door just like all others in the row, he paused, listening intently for a moment. He didn't have to wait long to hear it again  - a loud yell, not completely silenced even by the thick walls of the ship. He was about to keep walking, to get back to his cabin but… Something he couldn't quite rationalize made him hesitate, and reach for the door handle before pushing forward.

 

It slowly slid inwards, surprisingly silent considering the state of the ship; the death of metal ruled on-board, rust the color of dried blood covering most exposed surfaces. Chipping paint, sky blue long faded by the sun and salty air and corrosion that leaked trails over it like the tears of a blackened widow.

 

He watched the figure on the bed, the twisted sheets wrapped loosely around it, stark white in the dark of the night. He didn't dare step in quite yet, the threshold suddenly seeming like a barrier, more so than the door had been. Still, that same irrational recklessness from before was lingering in the back of his mind, and he stepped over the raised metal; crossed the distance which had him at the edge of the bed.

 

Sitting down slowly, quietly, he grimaced as the springs creaked under his weight. For a long moment nothing happened, all sounds from the sleeping man had stopped; until he sat up sharply, breathing heavily, a knife pressed against Damon's throat.

 

Whose hand had moved before he could even register it, by an instinct, gripping Marcus' wrist, making sure the blade didn't push past skin. Yet he could feel his own heartbeat thrumming wildly underneath the thin steel edge, a staccato of thump-thump-thump, beneath skin slick with sweat.

 

That's what recklessness got you, but he didn't move away, instead watched as Marcus' eyes widened in recognition. Watched the stoic mask fall back into place, hiding the face which had been so open and vulnerable amidst the throes of the dream.

 

"–Baird–" his already rough voice sounded even lower, little more than a rasp, a barely distinguishable bunch of syllables that spelled out his name. "–what are you even…"

 

He didn't finish the sentence as Damon's grip on his wrist loosened, allowing him to pull back the weapon, which he gingerly did, hand running over his face as if chasing away the last bits of sleep . A glimpse of that vulnerability, open and raw under the guise of the night. Eyes finding his, and Damon thought he could read the unspoken question there, in the deep crease of his frown, the tense line of his jaw, the hurled shoulders.

 

Always bracing for an attack, a force of habit.

 

"It's fine, nothing's happening." His own voice sounded odd, rougher than usual, without the characteristic lacksucker bravado. Tongue running over his parched lips, he tried again, realizing that Marcus was still waiting for an explanation. "Couldn't sleep. By the looks of it, you weren't getting much of that either, so…"

 

"So you thought you'd come in to say hi, huh." Laying back down on the bed with something which sounded half between a huff and a groan, Marcus threw an arm over his face, covering his eyes.

 

He didn't kick him out, so Damon decided it was about as much of an  acknowledgment to stay he was going to get, so he made himself comfortable, leaning his back on the wall. His waist was pressed against Marcus' legs, but if the added heat bothered the man, he didn't complain.

 

"Dunno how you do it, t' be honest. Sleep through it all." Damon mused, despite the fact that he'd seen Marcus catch some shuteye near a literal warzone before. "Bloody ship's been getting me constantly sick. And a nagging headache to top it off. All I want is some damn rest."

 

"'Guess it comes down to bein' used to it. At one point it's either sleep, or death." Marcus replied after a while. "Body goes for survival, shuts out the world."

 

"Hm…" Damon mulled over his words for a while, breathing in the hot summer air. The tickle of a droplet of sweat as it ran down his arm, the stuffy feeling of cloth against his skin, even if it was just his tank top and boxers, it was all uncomfortable and very much palpable when one had been awake for more than two solid days in a row. Cracking his neck from side to side as to dispel at least some of the stiff feeling that ached in his bones, he cast a look at Marcus, who still hadn't moved, motionless enough to appear asleep again, though it seemed unlikely. "Guess you got a point there. At least I don't get these… nightmares, everyone seems to have. Would've made things even worse."

 

Arm finally moving away from his face, Marcus looked at him, face barely distinguishable in the pale moonlight. Damon couldn't guess his expression, but that was often the case anyways.

 

"It was worse in prison. A lot more guilt to go around, and some level of insanity."

 

Damon could count on one hand the times he'd heard Marcus mention his time in the Slab, and even then he'd have leftover fingers. This night was proving intriguing even for his tired mind.

 

"I don't think I'd  have made it through, prison that is. Wouldda' pissed people off too much." Smirking, he twisted an edge from the sheet under his fingers, the worn fabric almost thin enough to give and rip under his fidgeting. He'd said it jokingly, but back during his trial in Halvo, the prospect of prison lest he got through court martial alive had been all too real.

 

"Dunno 'bout that. Reckon you might have. Got more to you than you let others see." Marcus remarked, reminding him once more there was a sharp, observant mind under the gruff exterior everyone noted about the Sergeant.

 

"What did you dream of?" He blurted out, wishing to change the subject; being the one discussed more openly was making him uneasy, despite that he usually pretended to have no qualms about putting himself into the spotlight. Yet he cringed internally at the brassiness of his question, how it had sounded too personal, even for a midnight conversation, one which was anything but a common occurrence for either of them. "Battles, death, the usual? Or like, that something beautiful everyone's lost at one point…"

 

The long silence stretched between them, and Damon mentally kicked himself for always running his mouth too much. He was curious, though not in the way Marcus' frequent intense nightmares were a bit of a gossip along the gears. They were something he didn't have, and while Cole had told him plenty about his own, Damon always wondered what could've shaken the otherwise stoic Marcus deeply enough to leave such a lasting damage.

 

He didn't think the man would actually grant him an answer however, until he heard the rustle of the thin mattress, watched as Marcus laid on his side, staring somewhere into the opposite wall.

 

" _Carlos._ " The name left his lips with a surprising softness, a distinct roll of the r' and l'. "I couldn't save him."

 

"Was he… your something beautiful?" It was all Damon could say, thrown a bit off-balance by the unexpected confession, mind already working to try and solve the puzzle of Marcus' story, even while still missing many pieces.

 

"Not… not in that way. Not in that sense… He was–" Turning to lay on his back again, Marcus seemed to struggle with finding words to continue, though all which escaped him ended up being another sigh. "Home." He said after a while, plain and simple, yet it somehow explained all there was to know.

 

Young Damon would've never thought of the concept of home as a person, but as decades went by and he saw his world go down in flames, he'd realized the only place left where a home could be was indeed, in people. It was what remained, more or less, after the bombs and the fire and the locust. It was what had remained now, like water from the rock…

 

Maybe this was what he was looking for here, the way he'd wandered exhausted and unable to return to his own thoughts, seeking and odd form of comfort which needed no preamble, no other explanation that the one Marcus had undoubtedly read  up from the blank spaces between his words. He'd been lonely, filled with the kind of aimless longing and melancholy nothing seemed fitting to quench. Perhaps it was the same emptiness Marcus felt and it was what had drawn him in, a wordless sort of understanding forming between them despite the bickering and teasing during the days and years they'd fought and lived side by side.

 

"I should go. At least one of us could get some sleep, and I'm not that much of a jerk as to keep you from it." He said instead, another sentence full of blanks. Yeah, it would've been better if he went away, if he didn't think down that dangerous path his thoughts had been going to lately. If he didn't get carried away by emotions he rarely let to surface.

 

"Baird… Will you shut up for once and turn that big brain off for a while." Marcus then patted the empty side of the bed, sounding tired but neither truly irate nor particularly sarcastic. He was making it seem so simple, an offer that heeded no need for caution.

 

He should say no. Get up and go back to his cot, stare at the ceiling until dawn breaks all over again and the smell of burnt coffee makes its way through the hallways. Bugger knows how anyone still found coffee, let alone drank the putrid thing, but he was starting to consider a dose of it if he didn't get any sleep, again.

 

So he huffed in response, moving to lay down on his side, awkward on the cot which was barely big enough for Marcus alone, and definitely not a good fit for both of them. Marcus had the only pillow, but that didn't matter as Damon curled up next to him, chest pressed to his arm and knees to the side of his leg. It wasn't really comfortable and he was certain there'd be a crank up his neck like it wasn't anybody's business in the morning, but when Marcus moved his arm away, and wrapped it loosely over Damon's shoulders, he decided that frankly, he didn't care.

 

It wasn't an embrace, not really; the weight of Marcus' arm was like an anchor, a way to keep him from falling out, preventing the steel frame of the bed from digging into his side. And if he was close enough to feel Marcus' chest expand with each breath, and hear his heartbeat, feel the heat of his skin seep through the cotton of his undershirt, then that was fine too.

 

"'Can hear you thinkin'." Marcus grumbled after a while. "Stop it."

 

"Wish it was that easy, big guy." Damon tried to sound more like his usual self, but it was a thinly veiled premise at best. He could already feel his eyelids grow heavier, the sting in his eyes as he struggled to keep them open.

 

Some more time passed, and he realized Marcus had started to lightly snore, already asleep again. The thought almost made him giggle,  his irrational, sleep-deprived brain supplying the image of Marcus as a giant cat. Or better yet, an Armadillo. One whose engine Damon had been tinkering with forever, until it ran smooth and even, the steady noise of it drowning out the one of the waves and the ship, until it finally lulled him into blissful sleep.  


End file.
